Every morning, before her husband and son woke up, Kirsten ran. She slept in her sports bra and running shorts, partly because she’d read in a fitness magazine that it helped motivate athletes to move first thing in the morning, and partly because it helped mask the fact that her husband, Greg, paid little attention to her body anymore.
In the winter, she ran before the sun came up. In the summer, she ran before the heat got too unbearable.
Running was, for her, the only time during the day that she was alone with her thoughts. Georgie, three, occupied her time and energy. But when she ran, she ran just for herself.
She wasn’t always an athlete. In fact, when she and Greg met, she was a wisp of a thing, more bone than muscle. He was an accountant at the non-profit she was volunteering at over the summer for her college’s internship requirement.
Kirsten fell in love with him right away. She never felt lust for him, but love, love was constant.
He was quiet, stoic, sweet. Always even in his temper, she never heard him raise his voice or speak harshly of anyone or anything. He was ten years her senior, but he was baby faced, and soft spoken.
While the other men in his department would yell or say crude things to her, Greg always remained patient, willing to show her the ropes and even stayed late to help her with research for her thesis.
Kirsten had to work up the courage to ask him for coffee, under the guise that she had to do an informational interview for her course work. Greg enjoyed talking about his work, and over time, a friendship formed.
The line between personal and professional was blurring, and even after her course work was done, they still saw each other on a regular basis. It wasn’t long before they fell into bed together.
Greg wasn’t a very adventurous lover – she was lucky if he let her climb on top – but what he lacked in adventure he made up for in attentiveness. He never forgot any of her project due dates. Always helped her with her taxes. Was willing to read over her term papers, even though he didn’t think he was a very good writer.
Kirsten didn’t love him for the bedroom, but she told herself that a home was made up of more than just one room, and smiled contentedly at the quiet, happy life they might build together.
Their courtship, though not lustful, felt safe. For Kirsten, the surprise child to parents who thought they’d long passed their diaper days, safe was what she was looking for. Greg was patient and kind. He didn’t make her cry out in bed the way her other lovers did, but he didn’t make her cry at all.
For someone who had grown up with all the pains of being an only child, but with none of the perks –
“Sorry we can’t make your tap recital this weekend, Kirsten, Samantha’s graduating college!”
“Darling, you know we’d love to take you to Aspen with us, but the older kids are all planning on doing the black diamonds and you’re still learning the bunny hills.”
“Kirsten, dear, don’t you enjoy having the house to yourself? Your siblings send their love!”
– having someone who kept things calm and consistent was exactly what she was looking for.
So when one of those calm and consistent love making sessions left Kirsten pregnant, there was no question to what they’d do. Kirsten was very progressive, but, being a “surprise” child herself, she felt she owed this baby the same chance her parents gave her.
She did love Greg, very much, and despite the lack of sparks, she knew he felt the same way. When she told him the news, he was uncharacteristically excited. She’d never seen him show so much enthusiasm for anything that didn’t revolve around numbers. But then, in a way, this did.
Number of months til the baby came: Nine. Number of drunken calls, texts, emails and facebook messages her college ex left her upon discovering she was marrying someone else: Eight. Number of months until graduation: Seven. Number of weeks until they got married: Six.
Number of times she told her mother she didn’t want to have any baby or wedding showers: Five. Actual number of baby/wedding showers her mother threw her: Four. Number of bedrooms in their new house: Three. Number of people invited to the ceremony: Two (Her sister, Samantha, and Greg’s friend, Daniel.)
Number of times Kirsten regretted her decision to marry Greg: One. Number of times she regretted keeping Georgie: Zero.
They got married, and Kirsten walked at her graduation ceremony with Georgie kicking away in her belly. All the time, Kirsten felt as though Greg had sighed a breath of relief. Now settled, he could continue his quiet existence, and keep moving forward, without having to exert any effort in wooing and wilding his wife.
Kirsten, though, wanted some wildness. So she ran. She didn’t always run fast, and she didn’t always run far, but when she did, she would make up stories in her head. Stories about the cute tattooed runner who always started out his run, just as she was ending hers.
Stories about the cop she ran by when she took Beylikdüzü escort bayan her long loop. He sat in his car drinking his coffee and eating his donut as his reward for finishing his beat.
Stories about the entire college cross-country team or rugby team or swim team, whatever group happened to be out that morning, smelling like musk and menthol and stale sex from the night before.
Sometimes, Kirsten wasn’t sure if it was the running or the stories that caused her face to flush the way that it did. But either way, she was pretty sure she knew which she’d prefer to get her work out from…if only the world was perfect.
That morning, she’d run a solid four miles – while concocting a delicious tale about the tattooed runner involving several creative tandem stretching routines. He was tall where Greg was short. Had chiseled features to Greg’s more rounded looks. Where Greg was soft, her tattooed runner was hard.
In every way. It was winter now, so she didn’t get to see him with his shirt off. But she remembered.
He had a beautiful nautical tattooed sleeve. On one shoulder, an octopus – or was it a kraken? She never looked close enough – crawled up and grasped his shoulder. The tentacles crept across his pectorals.
The suction cups kissed his collar bones and when he ran, she swore the sea creature came to life.
When she ran, she thought about kissing her way up his arm, licking the salt from his skin, pretending she was a lonely widow who walked on the lighthouse and welcomed lonely sailors in from the storm.
He often wore sunglasses, but one day he was wearing a baseball cap instead. She looked at him, and to her surprise, saw him looking back.
He smiled at her, and she could see waves churning in his eyes. First blue, then black, then grey. “Hi.” He said to her, making eye contact. And then?
She tripped on nothing. Stumbled on a giant pile of her own lust that had manifested itself on the path when he looked her way. He started to run over to her.
“Uh, careful,” she said, looking back on the trail, “I think that bit’s a…bit…uh, uneven.”
And Kirsten sprinted away, desperate to put distance between her and the awkward situation she had just created.
After that, most of her running fantasies consisted of the police man or the cross-country team. For a time at least. Because it was always true that the tattooed sailor was her favorite.
So it was no wonder that that morning she spent the majority of her run bent over the railing of the imaginary light house, having his strong and sturdy tattooed arms hiking her skirt up, revealing her round ass and causing the tentacles on his chest to crawl around as his fingers crept their way up her thighs until they found her wet and willing slit…yeah.
Let’s just say the run was over before she wanted it to be.
When she got home, she saw she’d missed several calls from her older, and incredibly dramatic sister, Samantha.
True to her colors, the phone started ringing before Kirsten could hit the call back button.
“Hey, Sam, I was just calling you ba-”
“Kiki!” Her sister shouted, “You’re never going to believe what she did this time.”
Ah, yes. She. Kirsten should have guessed Samantha had gotten herself into a tizzy about her step-daughter, Vicki. Truth be told, Kirsten always found it strange Sam insisted on calling her that.
Although a technically accurate term, at 21, Vicki was just three years younger than Kirsten, and therefore could more easily be Samantha’s sister than her daughter.
And yet, for every time she made a point to clarify that Kirsten was her younger sister, Samantha was sure to point out that Vicki was her STEP-daughter, always willing to ensure that if there was a power tree in the family, Samantha pulled rank.
Vicki may have had the family name longer, but Samantha’s finger wore the ring, and no one had better forget that anytime soon.
If anyone was aware of how much Sam loved power trips, Kirsten was it, so she understood the insane urge to tell everyone how Vicki was her STEP-daughter, thereby implying her role of evil step-mother, emphasis on the evil.
Samantha had married Vicki’s dad four years ago, and Vicki never showed much appreciation for Sam. Sam, in turn, never showed much respect for Vicki, as far as Kirsten was concerned.
And since Kirsten and Vicki were closer in age, they managed to hit it off. Which meant that Kirsten was often roped into playing mediator by both parties.
“Ok, sis, what’s up?”
“She got a nipple piercing!”
Kirsten stifled a laugh. Perfect, she thought. Just perfect.
“Right before her father’s 50th birthday party! I mean, what will everyone say?”
“Well, you aren’t expecting her to jump out of the cake, are you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her!” Samantha yelled into the phone. Kirsten pictured her perky titted step-niece enthusiastically jumping from a cardboard cake, topless, letting her newly Escort Beyoğlu acquired hardware act as the disco ball for the party.
“You have a point…”
“Will you say something to her?”
“Sam! What am I supposed to say? She’s an adult. She can do what she wants.”
“Not if it’s going to embarrass the family, she can’t!”
Kirsten flashed back to her sister’s giant wedding, four years earlier. The one she’d planned to happen the weekend prior to Kirsten’s own small civil ceremony. Forget that it was Sam’s second wedding.
Forget that Samantha bumped her own wedding date up months earlier than she had previously declared it would be –
“We decided a winter wedding better suited my coloring. Darling, you understand, don’t you? There’s a doll.”-
And, certainly forget that it meant Samantha would be out of town for a month on her honeymoon, leaving Kirsten without a bridesmaid, without a witness, with anyone to help her get dressed, or toast to her honor, or let her borrow something blue…Forget it. Sam certainly had.
“…sure, sis. I’ll call her now.”
“Thank you. She always listens to you.”
Because I listen to her, Kirsten said to herself. Out loud she replied, “Love you, talk soon. Let me know if you need any help with the party.”
“I will!” Sam chirped, but they both knew she wouldn’t. Instead, Sam would boss around the no less than 15 party planners she’d hired with her husband’s money.
At least she’s predictable, Kirsten said, ending the call with Sam and texting Vicki.
Girl. Booby jewelry? You’re trying to kill her, aren’t you.
Moments later, her phone buzzed.
Lol. No! I just wanted to do something to spruce up the twins.
Kirsten’s eyebrow raised. She’d shared a pool house with Vicki. She’d seen her step-niece’s tits.
Trust me, she typed. No sprucing needed.
Kiki! The phone buzzed back. Shush. Besides, I like it. And what’s more, Derek loves it.
Oh, jeez, Kirsten’s eyes rolled at the thought of whatever young dumb frat boy put Vicki up to this.
Just do me a favor?
Wear a padded bra to your dad’s party.
Boo. I thought you were going to ask me to send you a picture of it!
Kirsten burst out laughing. Such a little minx! She thought and began typing the same when she felt her phone vibrate. There it was. In all its glory.
Vicki’s perfect little tit, the pink nipple puckered and speared through. Kirsten bit her lip.
Didn’t it hurt?
No more than when Derek’s biting at it.
Kirsten had to shake her head to get herself to stop from thinking about that scenario. Stop thinking about your step-niece’s boobies you perv.
Don’t knock it ’til you try it :p Vicki texted.
Well, I’m still breast feeding Georgie, Kirsten found herself responding. And I doubt Greg would approve.
That’s not the only place you can piiiiiiieeeeerrrrrrrrcccccceeeeee…Vicki texted, teasing.
Kirsten’s thoughts dropped below her waistline, and her stomach dropped with it.
VIC! I could never!
Never say never, Auntie Ki. See you at the party. I’ll pad the girls up north, so long as you promise to consider an addition of hardware below your mason-Dixon line. ;p
Kirsten put the phone down, but couldn’t get the thought out of her mind. Greg had touched her exactly 4 times since Georgie’d been born three years ago, so it’s not like he’d notice one way or the other.
She found herself sneaking off into the other room when her husband was home to pull up the picture of Vicki’s breast, and absentmindedly fondled the screen.
There was something so sexy about seeing the softness of skin pierced through with a harsh metal bar. She couldn’t shake the feeling it gave her. And, increasingly, she discovered she didn’t want to.
Saturday, Greg took Georgie to visit his mother for the day. Kirsten went on a long run, and the whole time, she thought about what it would feel like to have her clit pierced.
Greg was pretty plain in bed, but before him, she’d had some lovers who preferred pain in bed, and it always made her squirm, in the best way possible.
But to have her clit, her most sensitive bit made erect and stiff as the metal bar that ran through it – she involuntarily shuddered at the thought. Pain or pleasure, it’s such a fine line. Maybe, she thought, it could be a metal one.
By the time she got home, she had worked herself into a frenzy. She put the shower on, with the intention of letting the bathroom get good and steamy. Slowly she removed each piece of clothing.
Kirsten’d been a wisp of a thing when she first met Greg. But she was pregnant when they married, and she gained a lot of weight when she had Georgie.
At first she thought that was the reason he stopped paying attention to her, but she quickly realized she didn’t care. She loved her curves, and the little belly left from the time she carried her son.
She felt strong, and capable. She was healthier now, though heavier than she’d Bomonti escort been when she met her husband, it didn’t matter. She wanted to be healthy for her son, and she was.
Kirsten traced her hips in the mirror, the curve of her waistline. She admired her breasts, still full, heavy. She breast fed Georgie, much to the distaste of her husband, but she felt proud when she scooped her son up and let him suckle.
Greg showed no appreciation for her as a sexual being. If they aren’t going to be fun, they might as well be functional, she would tease her sister every time she breast fed her son in her presence.
But now, standing in front of her mirror in her empty home, Kirsten began to appreciate how beautiful she was. She reached up and pulled the tie from her hair, releasing her pony tail, let her hair fall around her shoulders.
Slowly, she traced the line from her lips to her lips, a ritual her college lover used to let her languish under.
Moving past her throat, over her belly button, and down to her cunt, she parted her lips and looked at her clit, red, erect, begging to be touched. She touched the tip of her finger to it, brushing ever so slightly, and sent shivers to her scalp and her toes.
Kirsten pressed harder, and moved her feet apart, spreading her thighs so she could reach her slit, slick with cum, and slid her fingers forward to wet her clit.
“Jesus,” Kirsten gasped, pushing her hips back and up, at some invisible lover who stood behind her. At this point, though, she didn’t care who it was – tattooed runner, cop, college team – she didn’t have time for stories. She just wanted to get herself off.
Slowly and methodically, she began exploring her curves. First, just touching her clit, she experimented with pressure and proximity. Kirsten was always so amazed to see just how responsive her body was.
She didn’t have to rest her fingers directly on the raised erect flesh to get herself off, she could circle it, sway with it, find just how much the nerves starburst out from her little button.
An inch below, a quarter inch above, pick any direction and she could cause her eyelids to flutter in anticipation of when she actually reached the center, stroking her clit that marked the trail of a perfect line to her slit.
Flicking it, pinching it, twirling it between her fingers. Gently, and then harder. It was amazing how one action, performed in a variety of ways, could alter the intensity of her reaction depending on the day.
Her fingers, wet and eager, played her own pussy like a harp, each strum brought her closer to cumming, and produced an audible hum, gasps and twitches as her body reacted to the kind of attention only she could giver herself.
Kirsten slid one finger, and then two into her pussy, curling them ever so slightly until she found her gspot. The fleshy, ridged bump of skin that was hard, now, too, feeling it swell eagerly under her fingers. She cried out from the intensity of it and pulled her fingers from inside her.
Kirsten looked in the mirror.
“Fuck, girl.” She said to her reflection, eyes twinkling, “you really need to do this more often!”
And then she slowly, and surely returned her fingers to inside her pussy. Curling them again, she found the ridges and began stroking them, calling them, teasing them with crooked hand, shivering and shaking in response to the way this spot could make her muscles tense and relax, almost simultaneously.
She was bent over the vanity now, on tip toe, grasping the hard marble counter top. Her calf muscles were hard, strong, and bordering on cramping. Her knees bent ever so slightly, engaging her strong thighs.
Whenever she came in bed, her legs would seize up, tensing all her muscles. When she stood in this position, it was almost as if she was telling her body to get ready for an orgasm.
Her right hand moved rhythmically, in and out of her cunt, she could feel it greedily grasping her fingers, clenching and releasing, pulling them in deeper.
Her palm pressed against her clit, heel of her hand digging into it rocking with the rhythm of her fingers in her cunt, milking her gspot, making her juicy and drip, catching the cum in the palm of her hand.
She felt like she was going to explode.
Kirsten couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten off. She was swaying back and forth, her breasts hanging heavy over the sink, nipples hard and brushing against the curve of the faucet.
Metal on flesh, making her squirm. The picture of Vicki’s breast popped into her head and she thought about pinching it, first between her fingers, and then her teeth. The thought made her cum, hard and immediately.
She pinched her clit, softly at first. Then harder. The mixture of pain and pleasure made her knees buckle. She caught herself on the counter and stood up, to catch her breath. Turning around, she sat her firm, round ass down on the marble counter.
Even though the room was starting to steam up from the shower, the countertop remained cool to the touch.
She scooted until her back was to the glass, and she could see herself in the reflection of mirror that wrapped around the other side of the vanity. Bringing one leg to her chest, she looked at her pussy. She always thought it was pretty, but never pressed her lovers for details. She’d only had two before Greg.